


Take the Easy Way Out

by VenatorNoctis



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Bargains, Coercion, Cor has beaten his worst days before, Determined Survivor, Involuntary Arousal, M/M, No Lube, Strangulation, World of Ruin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-05-26 22:22:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15010706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VenatorNoctis/pseuds/VenatorNoctis
Summary: Darkness has fallen and Cor is searching for anything that might help keep the survivors going a little longer. Something else finds him."What the hell is this about?" Cor asks. Danger is one thing but he's not fond of feeling toyed with."You haven't finished entertaining me," Ardyn says. "You're practically on my doorstep. I'm afraid protocol demands you pay homage to the king."





	Take the Easy Way Out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweet_and_sour_candy_77](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweet_and_sour_candy_77/gifts).



There's a Nif base just past the Insomnia checkpoint on the highway, and like the rest of them, it's abandoned these days. Whatever humans were stationed there are refugees like everyone else now that the Dark has come, and whatever _else_ was stationed there has run loose. Cor makes his way through the gloom cautiously, moving from one shadow to another as he skirts around silent machinery and scaffolding to find the warehouses and command bunkers scattered through the base. If there's anything useful left here, from stored food to fuel to research notes, it'll be in one of the protected areas.

It goes surprisingly smoothly at first. There were a few little goblin-type daemons near the entrance but dispatching them was the work of moments, and there haven't been any others inside the walls. If there's something about the base itself that's discouraging the daemons from coming around, that would be the most valuable discovery he could make here.

The first two warehouses have nothing to offer, one empty and the other occupied by two still and silent mechs. The third one is smaller and still stacked with crates along the far wall, so it's at least worth taking a closer look. He makes his way to the back and sets his lantern on one of the higher stacks so it can shed light on the nearby space. 

When he cracks open the first crate, the seal gives way with a loud plastic splintering sound. Cor flinches, but this place is deserted. He doesn't need to worry that much.

Looks like this one is ammunition. Won't do them much good unless they can find a stockpile of Nif rifles somewhere. Cor shoves the crate aside and cracks open a second one. Pieces of MT armor? Maybe those could be useful in creating defensive gear for people who can't rely on sharing in the king's magic. He peers into the crate, trying to estimate how many pieces it contains.

Behind him, an amused voice says, "And what do we have here? I do believe a little mouse is come sneaking in at the back door, looking for tasty morsels to thieve while the cat's away."

That's as far as Cor lets the asshole get before his sword is drawn and he's turning, striking out toward the sound of the voice. The man it belongs to is blindingly fast, leaping back out of katana range and landing soundlessly on the concrete. He's tall, his build obscured by a long coat and a tangle of scarves, wearing a hat that fails to tame his long hair. Cor's never seen him in person before but he recognizes the guy from Prompto's photos.

"Ardyn Izunia," Cor says. "The pretender to the throne."

Ardyn doffs his hat and bows, completely unconcerned about the point of Cor's blade. "Cor Leonis," he says. "The _Immortal_."

He's between Cor and the exit. Cor takes a long step and swings his blade again, intending to drive him away from the door—but red light blurs around Ardyn and he snatches a greatsword out of the air in time to block the strike. Metal clangs, echoing through the empty space, and the impact vibrates up Cor's arms.

The sword is one Regis was fond of, back when he had occasion to call on the Royal Arms regularly. Ardyn swings it with terrible ease and this time Cor is the one who has to jump back in a hurry. How the fuck is he that strong?

"Beginning to take the measure of your foe?" Ardyn asks lightly. The lantern's light barely reaches him, casting horror-movie shadows over his face. He holds the greatsword like a much lighter blade.

He's not the first deathless monstrosity Cor has faced. If the Blademaster didn't kill him, this creep won't either.

He feints, trying to get a sense of how Ardyn fights, and their blades clash again. Traces of that red light flare again as Ardyn moves, his sickly perversion of Lucian royals' magic. He drives Cor back again, but Cor doesn't need to win this fight. He just needs to get to the door.

Ardyn knows that too, though, and doesn't give any ground. He fights with flashy exuberance, like he's playing a game—switching weapons for no reason, tossing oversized blades from hand to hand, throwing sweeping kicks high enough to catch Cor in the face if he doesn't keep his guard up. What a jackass.

He's not cautious by any means, and that's going to give Cor a chance. On one of those exaggerated swings Ardyn overextends himself, the Axe of the Conqueror too heavy for even him to stop it easily. Cor whips his katana through the opening and right through Ardyn's arm.

And staggers, overbalanced himself as the resistance he was expecting just fails to materialize. His blade didn't even slow.

Instinct makes him bring it up to guard as he turns and Ardyn meets him there in a clash of steel, pressing him backward with a simple longsword he's never seen before. "You might just be in trouble, Marshal." There's no sign that he's been attacked. Not even his sleeve is torn.

"No shit," Cor says. Only the King of Light can really put the Accursed to rest, everyone knows that. Or prays it's true, anyway, because it's the only hope Eos has for the future. But there has to be a way to get _away_ from here. His gaze flickers past Ardyn to the door on the far side of the room, still slightly ajar.

He shoves Ardyn back and dashes for it. It's only a few steps. If he gets outside—

A sharp _snap_ sounds behind him and the feel of the air changes in some subtle, creeping way. Cor reaches the door and yanks—and it doesn't budge. It's _open_ , if only by a few inches, and it moved easily when he came in. He turns back to find Ardyn standing with one hand raised, poised as if he's just snapped his fingers. Waiting. Holding the pose on purpose until Cor sees it.

"What the hell is this about?" Cor asks. Danger is one thing but he's not fond of feeling toyed with.

"You haven't finished entertaining me," Ardyn says. "You're practically on my doorstep. I'm afraid protocol demands you pay homage to the king."

Cor stares him dead in the eyes. "When the king returns, I will gladly pay homage to him."

For a moment actual anger flickers across Ardyn's face, and a hint of dread twists in Cor's gut. He can't kill this monster. He should be careful how much he makes this worse. "I'm sure he'd be touched by your loyalty. But do allow me to offer you a word of advice. Don't throw yourself recklessly into danger, Marshal. The beleaguered, frightened remnant of humanity you protect would feel your loss quite keenly. You do want to be sure that when Noct returns he still has someone to save, hmm?"

He isn't the only one protecting them, but Ardyn is still right. Every capable hand is needed to defend the survivors, and every loss takes its toll on morale. A loss as high-profile as him would be devastating. "Consider the advice taken. So what is this 'entertainment' you're requiring?"

"Ah! A concession, from once-proud Lucis." Ardyn beams. It's infuriating. "I want you to submit to me, Marshal Leonis. I want you to let me fuck you."

It's such a strategically pointless demand, such a matter of whim rather than actual value, Cor can't help blurting out, "Why?"

"Why?" Ardyn swaggers across the floor as if he's giving a speech to the assembled council, useless gestures and posturing. "Perhaps I'm lonely, and long for the company of another immortal. Perhaps you're the closest thing conquered Lucis still has to a heroic champion, and I enjoy the symbolism. Perhaps I'm bored. Choose your favorite answer."

" _Perhaps_ you're just an asshole," Cor growls.

"Always possible!" Ardyn smiles, bright and wild and dangerous. "In that case, you'd best take my offer before the terms change for the worse."

The shittiest part here is that Ardyn has a point. Technically he has no reason to leave Cor _alive_ , and there are plenty of worse things he could decide to do. This is damn creepy of him, but it's the easy way out. 

Cor licks his lips. "How do you want to do this?"

"Undress for me, Marshal."

"You don't need me to do that," Cor says. He's had his share of sex out on missions. He knows perfectly well how much you can do with both parties still almost dressed for combat.

"But this isn't about what I need, is it?" Ardyn answers. "It's about how much I can get." He doesn't follow that up with any threats or further bluster, just watches, hands on his hips, pretending he's completely at ease here. Pretending he's not alert and deadly enough to summon a weapon in a second if Cor tries to keep fighting.

His pride is worth less than his life. He has a duty to keep helping his people until his king returns. Cor takes off his jacket.

"Good choice," Ardyn says, and every time he opens his mouth Cor hates the sound of his voice a little more. "But then I suppose one doesn't get to be immortal by making unwise decisions."

Does he know how much Cor hates that nickname or is he just entertaining himself with his own bullshit? It's not worth asking but it thinking about it is at least a small distraction from going through these motions, mechanically stripping out of his clothes. Vest, shirt. Boots, socks. Pants and underwear both together, dropped on top of the pile.

"There," he says, looking back at Ardyn, staring him straight in the eyes and refusing to shrink back or try to cover up. "Now what?"

"Goodness me, I thought you were familiar with this maneuver," Ardyn says. "Now you find a convenient horizontal surface to bend over and brace yourself. I'll take over from there."

He obviously wants a reaction and knowing that helps Cor not give him one. Instead he bends over one of the untouched stacks of crates, bracing his weight on his elbows. The concrete is cold under his bare feet. The dry air is chilly with no sunlight to warm it. He doesn't want to be here, but he's suffered worse. This isn't going to be the thing that ruins him.

Ardyn looms behind him, presence made obvious by the drape of cloth, the smell of smoke, and the weird unsettled-air feeling of magic. "A proud and handsome warrior, even in defeat," he murmurs. His belt jingles and his gloved knuckles brush Cor's ass. "In ages past, a defeated army's champion would be sent to battle for sport in the arena."

"For your entertainment?" Cor asks sharply.

"Oh, no, not mine," Ardyn says. "I couldn't stand to watch men be harmed to no purpose."

Cor takes a breath—to argue, to ask him what changed, to point out his hypocrisy—and as he starts to straighten up Ardyn's hand slams into his back, pushing him back down. He grunts, the wind knocked out of him.

"Nothing but the tedious ramblings of an old man, I'm afraid. Now hold still." The head of Ardyn's cock presses into the crack of Cor's ass—dry, which was predictable but isn't any better for it. It nudges against his hole and Cor tries to fight the instinctive desire to tense up. That won't help here. This isn't a fight where he can brace for impact.

Ardyn pushes, _shoves_ , and Cor tries not to make a sound as he forces his way in. It's slow going with nothing to ease the friction and the pain is sharp, hot, the kind of thing that makes him instinctively want to squirm away. Hard to tell how big Ardyn is when anything would feel like it had him at his limit like this. Cor keeps his head down and focuses on his breathing as Ardyn drapes over his back and pushes in deeper in a series of short, uncomfortable strokes. Finally the whole thing is in him and there's a pause.

"Do tell me how it feels," Ardyn purrs against his nape.

"Which lie are you looking for?" Cor asks through clenched teeth. " _Oh yes, it feels so good_ or _oh no, it hurts so much_?"

"From a big strapping warrior like you?" Ardyn asks. "Both. You seem like the sort of man who'd like it like that." He pulls back and thrusts in harder, and Cor manages to keep quiet but it burns.

And you know, sure, if he wanted to be here, maybe he would like it pretty rough. But he doesn't want this and he's not interested in flattering Ardyn's ego any more than he has to just to make it out alive. He curls his fingers around the edge of the crate and hangs on, his breath hissing between his teeth at each rough thrust.

"So very stoic, Marshal," Ardyn says reproachfully. "You don't want me to get bored, do you?"

"Why not?" Cor tosses back. "I already am." As the words leave his mouth he already knows it's a bad idea, but he can't make himself just meekly play along with this bullshit.

Ardyn laughs. "Oh, I would have _loved_ you as a Shield."

Cor opens his mouth to refuse the honor and Ardyn's hands close around his throat. He's immediately not bored anymore. He tries to throw Ardyn off, tries to claw those too-strong hands away from his neck, desperate to get a full breath. Spots blossom in front of his eyes and his windpipe aches from the pressure, and nothing he does is enough to force Ardyn to let go. His blood roars in his ears. He's trying to speak and no sound comes out.

When Ardyn _does_ let go, it's clearly his idea and not that Cor actually managed to make him. Cor sucks in a deep breath, his throat raw, his lungs aching. He tries not to listen to Ardyn's soft, delighted laughter as he catches his breath.

The adrenaline has gotten him hard.

That's always been a thing for him, ever since he was a teenager picking stupid fights with monsters nobody had a chance of beating. Danger gets him going. This is just the last goddamn place he wanted it to happen. He really hopes Ardyn won't notice.

"There, now," Ardyn says, hands stroking down his sides like he's an animal that needs soothing. "Have we found our motivation?" One hand slides inward over Cor's hip and Cor can't twist away from him far enough to prevent him from grabbing hold of Cor's cock. "Ah! It appears we have."

"Go to hell," Cor snarls.

"Dear boy, they won't let me in," Ardyn says, soft and vicious. "That's why you all wound up in this mess in the first place."

They're on dangerous ground again. That's the voice of real fury, quiet and focused. Dozens of lifetimes' worth of anger concentrated into the shape of a man. And Cor's still hard for it. 

"Do it," he says hoarsely. "You wanted to fuck me. Do it already."

Ardyn's free hand closes on his nape and pushes Cor back down, pressing his cheek into the rough surface of the crate with that awful daemon strength. "Do it with me," he says.

Cor closes his eyes and braces his hands against the crate for leverage. He pushes back, trying to ignore the way it burns and the way it's still so hard to even move with nothing to ease the friction. Ardyn could kill him at any moment. One quick flash of that unholy Armiger and a blade could go right through his ribs—or worse; gods know what kind of daemon magic he can call on if he's sufficiently inspired. When Cor focuses on that it _should_ be just to remind himself to be careful, but it's not. 

He's taking the easy way out. He's already made the choice to do what he has to here. He's already agreed to entertain Ardyn as much as it takes to get through this. If that means kinking on the fact that the monster fucking him is a breath away from killing him even when there _isn't_ any strangling going on, well, so be it.

"Oh, that's so much better, isn't it?" Ardyn's grip on the back of his neck is inhumanly, punishingly tight. "Much more like you're submitting to your king."

 _My king would never have had to threaten me_ , Cor doesn't say. "So we're both going to tell ourselves what we need to hear, is that it?"

"Isn't that always the way?" Ardyn asks, this weirdly gentle tone like he's attempting actual sympathy.

Hell with that, though. Cor's not here for fake sympathy from the guy who's the cause of all his problems. "Hurry up," he says.

Ardyn squeezes his cock, almost too tight, making his breath hiss between his teeth. "Oh dear, am I making you late to an appointment? You should have said!"

Cor's almost at the point where focusing on the pain sounds better than listening to the bullshit. "I liked the choking better."

"I know," Ardyn confides. "And look how kind I am!" He lets go of Cor's cock and grabs him by the throat, viper-quick, pulling him up off the crate so his back is bowed and his throat convulses desperately. "If you can come before I get bored, I'll let go."

Cor grabs for his cock without stopping to think. It burns where Ardyn's buried in his ass and his throat aches and he doesn't want to die. He jerks off fast and hard, struggling to breathe, his face hot. Ardyn is still talking but he can't make out the words over the roar of blood in his ears. He's dizzy, desperate, his free hand clawing at the vise grip of Ardyn's fingers even as he pushes himself desperately closer. 

Black spots are crowding out his vision and he's shaky all over by the time he hits the point of no return but he gets there, clinging to Ardyn's wrist as if that would keep him stable as his knees buckle—and the orgasm is just as wrenching and uncomfortable as the whole rest of this encounter, clenching down too tight around Ardyn's cock, unable to catch his breath, a struggle for something that should have been a pleasure.

When Ardyn lets go of his throat, _that's_ the real relief, not getting off. Cor takes a deep breath, wincing at how scraped raw his windpipe feels. He tries to brace himself for what comes next. He's pretty sure Ardyn hasn't come yet and he's pretty sure he's not going to enjoy what it takes to make that happen.

But then Ardyn pulls out and lets go of him, stepping back. Cor straightens up, looking back over his shoulder warily, but instead of preparing to demand something increasingly unpleasant Ardyn is buttoning up his pants. Are they _done_?

"Bored after all?" Cor asks.

Ardyn shrugs. "Bodily pleasure is... not quite what it used to be, after all these years." He fusses with his gloves as if they need adjusting, then looks up at Cor slyly. "But watching a strong man's resistance crumble, that never gets old."

One of Cor's hands clenches into a fist reflexively and he has to take deep breaths. Fighting Ardyn won't help any more a second time than it did the first. 

Instead of answering he retrieves his clothes. Crossing the room to reach them is more than a little uncomfortable, his ass raw and sore, but he tries to ignore it. He has a potion with him in case of emergencies but this doesn't count. The pain isn't that serious and curatives are a precious resource lately. He'll be fine.

Ardyn watches him dress with the kind of smug, amused expression that just begs for punching. "Well! Thank you so much for indulging me, Marshal. I do hope you enjoy your stay in my domain."

Cor resists the urge to tell him how shitty his hospitality is. "Yeah. I'll do that."

"Good." Ardyn turns away, heading for the door, and Cor starts to hope this really is the end of it—all the more so when Ardyn snaps his fingers and the air shifts again, like the world settling back into place. The door opens smoothly when Ardyn pulls on it.

He stops and turns back on his heel, raising one hand in another of those gestures that would be more at home in a theater than real life. "Oh! One last thing. You were here looking for resources for your plucky band of survivors, weren't you? If it were me, I would head to the north end of the base and investigate the locked warehouse there."

Cor glares at him. "I have to wonder whether that's good advice or just the setup for a daemon ambush."

Ardyn, the shithead, only smiles. "That's what's so delightful about being alive, isn't it? You never know what's going to happen next." He tips his stupid hat. "Until next time, Marshal."

Then he's gone, a swirl of unfashionable coat and ugly scarves.

Cor heaves a sigh of relief. If "next time" doesn't happen until Noctis comes home to carve that smarmy fucker to ribbons, it'll be just fine with him.


End file.
